The animal had been stunned by the prodigious leap that he had made. Weakened by the blood that he was losing, and that was flowing in streams from his wounds, he remained a minute motionless on his trembling haunches; then uttering a dull growl of rage, and hollowing the sand with his powerful paws, he seemed to be gathering his strength to leap again on the enemy, who was stretched on the ground a few paces before him.
Emile, under these desperate circumstances, consulting only his own heart and the horrible situation of the Montonero, resolved to save him even at the peril of his own life. Loading his pistols, he threw himself boldly between the man and the lion.
The animal, startled and perhaps frightened by the sudden apparition of this new adversary, who placed himself so boldly at but a few paces from him, crouched close to the ground, with his ears hanging down, and looked at him with a malicious air, uttering a dull and sullen growl, which, with animals of the feline tribe, denotes the last paroxysm of rage.
"Upon my word," murmured the Frenchman, with a sly smile, looking his formidable adversary in the face, "this is what I call a splendid duel, and if I fall, it will at least be under the efforts of a lion—that is some comfort."
And he burst into such a hearty fit of laughter, that the Indian chiefs, notwithstanding their habitual self-control, could not repress a gesture of astonishment. They thought that fright had driven away the senses of the Frenchman.
But Emile had never been more master of himself; his mind had never been clearer, or his coolness greater; but Frenchman, and above all Parisian as he was, the devil-me-care spirit of the gamin had become paramount, and he would not play the game of life and death without risking a last joke.
While speaking thus he had coolly raised his pistols, and at the moment when the lion was nerving himself to spring upon him, he fired.
The animal bounded from the spot, uttering a terrible howl, and fell dead.
"Upon my word," said the painter, laughing, "I thought it was more difficult than that; the lion seems to me to have gained a false reputation, or else he must have considerably degenerated; no matter, it is very diverting sport."
After this soliloquy, he hastened towards Zeno Cabral, near whom were the two chiefs.
The former had regained consciousness, and assisted by his friends he attempted to stand up—ashamed, bold and expert sportsman as he was, that he had been so rudely overcome by a wild beast.
On seeing the young man, who held out his hand to him smiling, an expression of gratitude illumined his manly countenance.
"Don Emile," said he, with deep emotion, "once more I owe you my life; I shall never be able to pay my debt."
"Perhaps, señor," answered the young man significantly.
"Oh!" cried he, earnestly, "I swear to you, Don Emile, by all that is sacred in the world, that whatever you ask of me, at whatever time, or in whatever place, I will do it without hesitation, even if it risked that life which you have twice saved, and which henceforth belongs to you."
"I rely upon your word, Señor Don Zeno," seriously answered the young man; "I will remind you of it, if occasion requires."
"You will always find me ready to keep my word."
Too weak to remain longer standing, he seated himself before the fire, and his friends took their places by his side.
The fire had been lighted; the four men, conquered by sleep, and fatigued by the struggle which they had had with the lions, were wrapped in their ponchos and their blankets, and were not long in getting to sleep.
When the sun appeared on the horizon, the four men awoke nearly at the same time.
Zeno Cabral, thanks to the repose that he had taken, had recovered, and, apart from some feebleness of speech, he awoke fresh, and in a condition to continue his journey.
The first care of the Montonero on awaking was to rise and run to his horse, which he began carefully to groom, and then gave him some provender.
This duty accomplished, the young man returned to his companions, who had carelessly and without curiosity noticed his movements.
As to the painter, he had drawn from his game bag some palomas, had plucked them, and spitting them on the ramrod of his gun, had placed them over the fire, placing at the same time some sweet potatoes on the hot embers.
The Frenchman was thinking of refreshment; the events of the night had sharpened his appetite, and made him ready for breakfast.
The great haste which the Montonero had exhibited with regard to his horse was but a pretext for him to put his ideas in order, and to prepare to answer questions which the Indian chiefs would no doubt put to him. The surprise that they had manifested on seeing that he knew Don Emile had not escaped him; he did not wish to give them time for their doubts to change into suspicions; he knew the instinctive distrust of the Indians, and it was of the greatest importance to him not to arouse it; he therefore resolved to confront the difficulty so as to avoid disagreeable remarks.
"Eh, Don Emile!" said he gaily to the young painter, taking his seat by his side; "You are a man of precaution, it seems to me that's a succulent breakfast that you are preparing there."
"A breakfast of which you and these caballeros will take part, I hope," graciously answered the young man.
"As to me, I accept your offer with the greatest pleasure; but," added he, changing his tone, "will you permit me to ask you a question?"
"Two, if you like, señor."
"You will pardon this apparent indiscretion, for which the interest I have in you is the only excuse."
"I am persuaded of it, señor; but you can speak. I have not, thank God, occasion to fear any indiscretion."
"If that is the case—and I congratulate you on it—I will explain myself without fear."
"Pardieu!" said Emile, turning the spit on which he was concentrating all his attention; "Speak, my dear sir; do not hesitate the least in the world."
The two chiefs, apparently indifferent to this conversation, which they understood perfectly, for it was carried on in Spanish, listened attentively to it.
"In the first place," pursued the Montonero, "let me express my astonishment at meeting you here, when I thought you were very far off."
"The matter is very simple however. After the storm that had assailed us near the Valle del Tambo, when you had left us as well as Señor Pincheyra, I confess that my companions and I were much embarrassed."
"What! Señor Don Pablo Pincheyra left you suddenly?" cried the Montonero, feigning surprise.
"Mon Dieu! Yes," answered the young man, good naturedly; "he pretended that we were too far from his camp for his escort to be useful to us, and that, since you thought fit to attend to your affairs, he did not see any reason why he should not attend to his; and thereupon made us his compliments, and went away—of which, between ourselves, I was very glad, for notwithstanding all the courtesy which Don Pablo has manifested towards us, his company, I confess, was not at all agreeable to me."
"But the persons with whom I had set out from the camp of Casa-Frama, and whom I had commended to you before my departure?"
"Señor Don Pablo did not concern himself with them, and after having taken leave of me in a few words, he set off with his partisans."
"Ah! And then?"
"Then I also set out, a little embarrassed, as I have already told you. Happily for me, and for the persons who accompanied me, at the moment when lost in the mountains, we wandered through unknown paths without knowing where to direct our steps, Providence sent us a numerous troop of Indian horsemen."
"What!" quickly interrupted Zeno Cabral; "These whites of whom you spoke to me last night, chief—"
"That caballero and the persons of his suite," answered the old chief, affirmatively nodding his head.
"That, upon my word, is a very extraordinary incident. When the chief spoke to me on the subject, I boldly answered that I did not know you."
All the suspicions of the chief had suddenly vanished before this frank explanation.
The Montonero understood that he had attained the end which he sought.
"You have no other questions to ask me, señor," said the painter, in a slightly jeering tone.
"Well, I will ask you one thing more."
"Do so; I will answer you."
"Well, I should like to know if chance, alone, has brought you here?"
"The two wild animals brought me here," answered the young man, in a somewhat sardonic tone.
"Which means—?"
"Simply this—wakened by the roar of the lions, the thought suddenly occurred to me to chase them. As soon as my resolution was taken, I rose, seized my gun, and, without any other indications than the roar of the animals, I immediately pursued them. Chance led them here, and I followed them; that is the whole history—are you satisfied with it?" added he.
"Perfectly, my dear sir," answered the Montonero, and mentally adding—"this lion hunt is only a pretext; it conceals something from me; I will watch."
"And now, if you like, señor," resumed the young man, "we will take breakfast."
"With all my heart," answered the Montonero.
The palomas were taken from the spit, the sweet potatoes drawn from under the embers, and the breakfast began. We need not add that the four people did justice to this improvised repast.
The meal finished—and it did not last more than a quarter of an hour, for the dangers of desert live induced frugality—the cigarettes were lighted.
"I think," said Emile, addressing the chiefs, "that it is time for us to return to the camp. If nothing detains Don Zeno Cabral in this place, he will perhaps do us the honour to accompany us."
"It would be with the greatest pleasure that I should accept your obliging offer, caballero," answered the partisan. "Unhappily, my way is diametrically opposite to that in which you are going."
"Permit me, then, caballero, to take leave of you," answered the young man, rising.
"You will not go away without taking the skin of your lion."
"And that of the lioness, that I am happy to offer you," added Gueyma
"I thank you, and accept your offer joyfully," said the young man; "unhappily, I do not know how to proceed to skin these noble animals."
"Will you permit us to say a few words to our friend? We shall then be happy to render you this service."
"Very well, gentlemen, I am at your orders," answered the young man, stretching himself again upon the grass; and he mentally added— "Perhaps I shall thus learn something."
But the painter's hope was completely deceived; it was in vain for him to pay the most earnest attention; it was impossible for him not to hear, for they spoke in a very high voice, but to understand a word of the conversation, for the simple reason that, either from mistrust or because they could more easily express their thoughts in that language, the conversation of the three men took place in Guaycurus.
The conversation lasted for more than an hour, in a very animated way; at last, Zeno Cabral turned towards Emile, who was still lying on the grass, and carelessly smoking his cigar. Extending his hand to him, he said in a friendly tone—
"I am going, Señor Don Emile; we leave on good terms, I hope?"
"I do not see why it should be otherwise, señor," answered the young man, taking the hand that was extended to him.
"Thank you; adieu, Don Emile," and he went towards his horse, that he began to saddle and bridle.
The French painter had risen, and had gone to the wild beasts, which the Indian chiefs, as soon as their conversation was ended, had proceeded to skin. The young man was anxious to be present at this curious operation, which the Guaycurus, armed only with their knives, executed with unimaginable skill and rapidity.
"Don Emile!" cried Zeno Cabral.
"What do you want with me, señor?" answered the latter.
"Not adieu; it is au revoir that I ought to have said; I do not know how it is, but I have the conviction that we shall soon see one another again."
"And I, too," answered the painter.
"What do you mean?" asked Zeno Cabral.
"Nothing more than what you say yourself, señor; you have a conviction—I have a presentiment—is there anything astonishing in that?"
The partisan looked at him with profound attention; then, appearing to take a sudden resolution—
"Au revoir, Señor Don Emile," said he, in a sorrowful voice; and lifting his hand to his hat, which he slightly raised, set off at a full gallop.
The young man followed him some time with his eyes along the windings of the route; when at last he had disappeared on the border of a forest, into which he plunged without slackening his pace, the painter shook his head.
"There is evidently something in the wind; I must watch more than ever!"
The two chiefs, after having skinned the lions, were proceeding to rub the inside of the skins with ashes, so as to preserve them from decomposition until they could dry them in the sun.
It was about seven o'clock in the morning. The camp of the Guaycurus was not more than half a league from the spot where the partisan had established himself for the night; the distance, then, could be accomplished in very little time.
"Well!" asked the painter, "What shall we do now, chiefs?"
"What you like, señor," answered the Cougar; "the skins are prepared; it only remains for us to shoulder them."
"That shall devolve on me," said the young man; "I have already given you sufficient trouble."
The old chief smiled gently.
"Let me carry one, and you shall take the other."
The painter offered no further objection; he soon felt the justice of the remark of the old Indian. The skin that he had taken on his shoulders still wet, was very heavy and difficult to carry.
As there was nothing else to do in the partisans' camp, they then set off left the bloodstained bodies of the lions to the vultures, who had been for a long time wheeling above them, and who swooped down immediately the men had disappeared.
The latter had resumed—walking with that gymnastic step peculiar to the Indians, and which, in a very short time, enables them to cover a great deal of ground—the way to their camp, followed with great difficulty by the Frenchman, who was nearly all the time forced to run to keep up with them.
We will now explain to the reader what motive had led the young man so suddenly to the camp of Zeno Cabral.
To do this we must go back a few hours to the moment when the Cougar and Gueyma, after having conversed a long time with Arnal round the council fire, had risen, and made the tour of the camp to assure themselves that everyone was asleep, and had then gone away under the pretext that they were going to reconnoitre a spot where they had seen a fire in the night, shining like a solitary lighthouse at a short distance off.
After their departure, Arnal made sure of the calm sleep of Dove's Eye, spread several furs over her, and then, wrapping himself in his furs, the chief lay down not far from the young girl, and was soon asleep.
The Indians keep but a poor lookout when they do not suspect enemies near them.
In the desert where the Guaycurus were now camped, a surprise was not to be feared; moreover, their two most experienced chiefs were on the lookout, and would warn them of the least danger.
Half an hour after the departure of the chiefs, Emile Gagnepain, comfortably lying near a fire, removed the furs which covered his face.
There was the most profound silence in the camp.
After a careful examination, the young man, convinced that all the warriors were asleep, and that consequently no one would notice him, rose, passed his pistols through his girdle, and seized his gun.
Light as were the steps of the painter, a man heard him, and abruptly raised his head. Emile inclined his ear, said a few words, and the other lay down again without taking any further notice of him.
The young man entered the enramada, which served for a refuge to the marchioness and her daughter. The marchioness did not sleep; with her back supported against the trunk of a tree, she held on her knees the charming head of her daughter, plunged in a calm and refreshing sleep.
The marchioness raised her head on the arrival of the young man; she seemed to be anxious to question him. But the latter quickly put a finger to his lips to recommend prudence, and took his place by her side, not, however, without having cast on the sweet countenance of Doña Eva a look full of love and admiration.
The marchioness, rendered anxious by the visit of the young man at such an hour, impatiently waited for him to speak.
"Reassure yourself, Madame," said he, in a low voice; "up to the present time, God be praised, we have not, I think, anything to fear."
"But," she answered in the same tone, "you have not interrupted your sleep without important reasons."
"I have, indeed, a motive in coming here, Madame, but this motive only arises from fears and suspicions."
"Explain yourself, I beg, Don Emile."
"The fact is this, Madame. For several days I have heard frequently the name of your implacable enemy, Don Zeno Cabral."
"Ah!" said she, with sudden emotion. "These people are his friends. We are lost!"
"Do not go so fast or so far, Madame; although we should certainly redouble our precautions, and keep ourselves on our guard."
"Dear Don Emile, do not leave me in this situation. Something has happened, has there not?"
"Of what is passing I am ignorant, Madame; only, in case there should be anything important, I am resolved to know it. That is why I have ventured to disturb your repose."
"But what is it that has happened?" pursued she.
"Less than nothing, Madame."
"Ah, you at last avow—I knew well that—"
"Pardon, Madame," interrupted he, quickly; "you misunderstand me, here is the fact in a few words."
"Tell me quickly, I beg you."
"This evening," the young man resumed, "the three Guaycurus chiefs had a long conversation round the council fire; then, after this conversation, the Cougar and Gueyma, after having gone the round of the camp, set out, to go, as they said, and reconnoitre on foot."
The marchioness remained a short time in a reverie, and then, raising her head—
"I do not think that is anything extraordinary, or that it should disquiet us," said she.
"There would be nothing, indeed, disquieting in this sortie," answered he, "if it had not been induced by a motive."
"It has a motive?"
"Yes, Madame. Without doubt the desire of visiting the people camped near us, whose fire can be seen shining in the darkness."
"Oh!" she said, with a thrill of fear, "You are right; that is serious. What do you intend doing?"
"I intend to set out from the camp to follow the two chiefs to this encampment, where, perhaps, I shall meet faces that I know."
"You run great danger in this excursion," said the marchioness.
"I thank you sincerely for this good opinion, Madame, and to justify it I shall set out as soon as possible."
"Mon Dieu! If you are discovered!"
"I will take precautions not to be so, Madame."
"These Indians are so crafty."
"Bah! If they discover me I shall get out of it by inventing some pretext or other. But I wish to assure myself whether my conjectures are true. I leave you, Madame."
"Go then, since you insist on it," answered she, with sadness, "and heaven bless you."
The young man bowed respectfully to the marchioness, and quitted the enramada. At his exit from the camp, a sentinel half opened his eyes.
"Where are you going, brother?" asked the Indian.
"I have been wakened by the wild beasts. I cannot sleep, and am going to kill one of them."
"Success to you," answered the sentinel.
Lying on the ground, again he closed his eyes.
"Good," said Emile, as soon as he was alone. "I have no further need of secrecy now. This sleepy sentinel has done well to question me abruptly. Thanks to him, I have found what I was seeking."
Things had turned out better for the Frenchman than he had dared to hope; for he had no occasion to offer his pretext, and his explanation with Zeno Cabral was quite friendly.
Great was the surprise of the marchioness when, at about eight o'clock in the morning, she saw the young painter enter the camp, in company with the two Guaycurus chiefs, and bearing boldly on his shoulders the spoils of a lion, that terrible king of the desert.
The long absence of the young man, which was, as we have said, prolonged during the whole night, began seriously to disquiet the marchioness, who, like many persons tried by long misfortunes, was ready to think that even the most common events would have lamentable results. Already, giving freedom to her thoughts, she pictured to herself the young man surprised by the Indians in the act of spying, being killed by them; and she reproached herself with this supposed death, as if she had really been the cause of it. The remarks of her daughter and those of Tyro, to whom she had related her interview with the painter, did not tend to reassure her, although Tyro, who was the man to whom the young man had spoken before entering the enramada, told him he was certain that it was not probable that his master had been the victim of his curiosity, as, if it had been so, the chiefs would have immediately returned to the camp, and he (Tyro) as well as all the persons in the suite of the young man, would have been interrogated by them, to learn what reason Don Emile had for acting the spy upon them.
The marchioness, acutely sensitive from long suffering, would not hear anything, and as the time passed her anxiety became more poignant.
But when she perceived the young man, whose bearing was so calm, and whose countenance was so radiant, a sudden reaction took place in her, and she immediately passed from the most profound sadness to the most lively joy.
The warriors, excited by the arrival of their chiefs, and especially by the kind of triumphal entry which they made with the skins of the lions carried on their shoulders, had met at the entry of the camp, where they shouted with joy, and loudly clapped their hands, forgetting in their enthusiasm the mask of impassibility that they usually bore on their countenances.
The Cougar and Gueyma—men habituated to similar ovations for such prowess—did not hesitate to give to the young Frenchman the honour that was due to him in the death of the lions, and related in all its details the event as it had happened; and then Gueyma gave to Emile the skin which up to that moment he had kept on his shoulder.
At this action, done so generously before all the assembled warriors, the shouts redoubled, and the enthusiasm was carried to its height.
The Guaycurus who till then had held the Frenchman in somewhat poor esteem, by reason of the instinctive dislike which they have for the whites generally, exhibited towards him marks of general consideration, for the young man had manifested great courage—a virtue which the Indians honour above all others.
Emile, delighted at his unexpected ovation—not that his pride was flattered by the praises which the Guaycurus addressed to him, but because he hoped that, thanks to the turn of opinion in his favour, he would enjoy more liberty among the Indians, and thus could better protect the ladies—did not notice, any further than he was obliged, the infatuation of which he was the object, and, accompanied by Tyro, who had loaded himself with the skins which he much admired, proceeded hastily towards the enramada, to give the marchioness an account of his expedition during the night.
The two ladies, seated side by side before the enramada, protected by the gauchos, who were a few paces off, understood nothing of what had passed in the camp, and of the joyous cries that the Indians incessantly uttered. Their complete ignorance of the Guaycurus language caused them to suffer secret disquiet, not knowing to what cause to attribute the general commotion. They were too far from the theatre of action to form a correct judgment of what was passing, but near enough to see that the young painter was the centre of a group of warriors, who gesticulated with animation, and, as they supposed, with anger. It was therefore with pleasure that the marchioness and her daughter saw the young man, at last rid of those who had surrounded him, running towards them.
The marchioness was very anxious to hear the news. She scarcely allowed the Frenchman to salute her, so great was her excitement.
Emile related to her, point by point, all that had passed between him and the hunters since his departure from the camp, especially laying stress on the manner in which the two chiefs had proceeded to the spot where the solitary fire was burning.
After this recital, that the marchioness had listened to with sustained interest, there was a pause.
"So," said the marchioness, at last, "you think it is certain that this man really expected the two Guaycurus chiefs."
"I would swear it, señora," answered the young man. "Concealed in the woods for some time, not only all their words reached my ear distinctly, but even the very play of their faces could not escape me. The manner in which they accosted each other, the first words that they exchanged, convinced me that the chiefs knew very well that they would meet the partisan in that place, and that moreover they were intimately connected with him."
"That man is strange, his conduct is incomprehensible," murmured the marchioness, sorrowfully; "everywhere I find himself on my steps, devoted to my ruin, and, moreover, apparently with power almost without limits. What is to be done?" she added, allowing her head to sink in sadness on her breast.
The marchioness, speaking thus, had rather answered her, secret thoughts than the words of the young man; but feebly as this remark had been made, the painter had heard it.
"Madame," he answered, with an accent of tenderness, veiled by profound grief, "I am but a stranger, thrown by chance on this strange land, without friend or support. But I do not despair—I who have devoted my existence to serve you—I fight continually against your numerous enemies. Why should you not do for yourself what I have tried with all the ardour of sincere devotion? Why should you be disheartened when nothing yet proves that we shall fail in the struggle that we have so long sustained, without having up to the present, time met with a real check? Is not our situation really better than it was when we found ourselves at Tucumán, in the hands of your enemies, or prisoners of the Pincheyras at Casa-Frama? Reflect, Madame, and believe me; do not doubt the power and justice of God. He has taken your cause in hand, and He will save you."
"Will He do so?" sorrowfully murmured the marchioness, as she lowered her head to conceal the tears which, in spite of her, filled her eyes.
"Oh, mother," said Doña Eva with tenderness, furtively grasping her hand, fearing, on account of the costume which she wore, to make any manifestations which might have divulged the fact of her being disguised.
"Alas!" pursued the marchioness with that feverish impatience which wounds those who are misunderstood by those whom they address, "Neither of you understand the real situation in which fate has placed us. Our prison is not the less real because it has no visible bounds it is larger, that is all. In place of being shut up in stone walls, we are held prisoners by the walls that our forests, mountains, and rivers form around us. Our persecutor, certain that it is impossible for us to escape, disdains to show himself to us, or to make us feel the weight of the chain fastened to our bodies; he contents himself with watching us from afar, allowing us an appearance of liberty that he will take from us when he thinks necessary. For a long time his plan has been known to me. I have reckoned up this man; hatred is clairvoyant—nothing can hide it. In a week—tomorrow, or today perhaps—you will see him suddenly rise, like an evil genius, before us; all will then be finished and we shall be ruined."
Emile and the young girl did not try to answer these words, the justice of which, however, struck them. Emile, who never concealed from himself the desperate position of the marchioness, and whom devotion, and another sentiment, perhaps, that he did not dare to avow, alone kept near her, felt the uselessness of common consolations. It was evident to him that no human power could succeed in snatching the two ladies from the pursuit of their enemy, and that, unless by a miracle they would positively be lost.
Meanwhile the enthusiasm of the Guaycurus had become somewhat calm. On the order of the chiefs they were occupying themselves, with their ordinary activity, in the preparations for their departure, and were about to mount their horses to descend to the plains, where they hoped to encamp the same evening.
Soon each one was in the saddle; the word "advance" was given, and the troop left the camp.
Emile and Tyro were, side by side, talking in a low voice, followed at a short distance by the two ladies, and as they supposed by the gauchos, who conducted the baggage mules.
The descent, although rapid, was easy, as generally happens in those countries where the roads are unknown, and the path traced, for the most part, by wild beasts. The Indians followed the bed of a dry torrent and everything appeared to indicate that long before the setting of the sun they would reach a spot suitable for encamping, on the borders of a little river, the waters of which, sparkling in the rays of the sun, appeared at some distance in the plain, through the high grass.
This river, named the Rio Bermejo, was an affluent of the Rio Paraguay, and served as a natural frontier to the immense plain known under the name of the llano de Manso, and which, nearly unknown at that epoch, was only traversed by untamed hordes of Indian bravos, for whom it formed a hunting territory abounding in game.
The Guaycurus had just forded the Rio Quachifras, a considerable affluent of the Rio Parana, but nearly dry at that season of the year. The Cougar gave the order to camp on the border of a wood of cotton trees, that the horses might repose during the great heat of the day.
The ladies, fatigued with this long journey (for they had been travelling for nearly five hours), withdrew on one side to take a little repose, which they absolutely needed. Emile prepared to do the same, leaving to Tyro the care of the mules and the horses, and already he had comfortably installed himself in some shrubbery perfectly sheltered from the sun, when he perceived the two gauchos stopping before him, each with his carbine in one hand, and his hat in the other.
The young man looked for a moment at these two honest acolytes—for whom, we may say, he had a profound aversion, though he took good care to hide this feeling from them—and to his great discomfort he thought he saw on the faces of the two rascals an expression which gave him cause for reflection.
The gauchos remained before him silent and motionless. The young man, wishing to put an end to this embarrassing situation, decided to speak to them.
"What do you wish, señores?" he asked.
The two brothers exchanged a stealthy look of intelligence, appearing to invite each other to speak first; but it appeared that neither knew how to commence, for they contented themselves by bowing without answering.
"Upon my word, gentlemen," said Emile, impatient at this dumb show, which he did not understand, "since you will not speak, permit me to have my siesta. I have a great desire to sleep, and I shall be obliged if you will leave me to repose."
"We also, caballero," answered Sacatripas, at last deciding to speak, "we also want sleep, for the sun is very hot, and we have no intention to keep you long; only we desire to have a few words with you."
"Is the affair important, Señor Sacatripas?"
"Very important!—at least for us, caballero," answered Mataseis, becoming bolder.
"Very well," said Emile, "then go on quickly, I beg you; I am listening."
"Señor," pursued Sacatripas, recovering from the passing emotion which he had experienced, and assuming an agreeable air, "you can recall, I suppose, the conditions which we have had the honour of making with you."
"That is to say, with Señor Tyro?"
"With Señor Tyro, caballero; pardon me if I insist on that point—you remember it?"
"I confess, in all humility, señor, that I do but vaguely recall these conditions, and that I should be much obliged to you to refresh my memory on this subject."
"Very well, caballero," said Mataseis, intervening with a gracious smile; "we stipulated that eight days before the end of each month we should tell you if we consented to remain in your service."
"Ah! Very good—I believe that clause exists. Well."
"Señor," interrupted Sacatripas, with a courteous bow, "it is three weeks since the month commenced."
"What has that to do with your conditions?"
"It seems to me, caballero, that it has much to do with them," resumed Mataseis.
"So," sharply answered Emile, "it is your congé that you ask of me, is it, señores?"
The two bandits made a gracious salute, no doubt flattered at having been so well understood.
"I have neither the right, the power, nor the desire to retain you in my service against your will. Since the service is no longer agreeable to you, there is only one thing for me to do—to give you your congé."
"Very well put," observed Mataseis, twirling his moustache, with a courteous smile.
"You are free, then. Tyro will pay you the sum I owe you. Are you satisfied?"
"We could not be more so," they both answered at once.
"I am glad that we leave one another good friends. But permit me to ask you one question. Have you ever had anything to complain of since you have been in my service?"
"Never!" they cried, tragically placing their hands on the place where there ought to have been a heart.
"Then perhaps, it is the smallness of the sum that I allow you which induces you to leave me. If I were to double the money?"
"We should be very sorry to do so, caballero, but we should refuse."
"If I were to triple it?" he pursued, looking them full in the face.
The bandits felt compelled to lower their eyes before the flashing look of the young man.
"We should refuse still, caballero," said they, turning away their heads.
"If I were to quadruple it?" resumed he, in the evident intention of pushing them to their last intrenchments.
They hesitated a moment; their eyes darted a momentary flash of covetousness, and Mataseis, after having exchanged a look with his companion, at last answered, in a voice strangled by the emotion which he vainly strove to suppress:
"It would be detestably annoying, caballero, but we should still refuse."
"Then you have decidedly made up your mind?"
"Perfectly, caballero."
"But you have grave motives, no doubt, for acting thus?"
"Certainly, caballero," answered Mataseis; "your service is very agreeable—you see that we render you full justice—too agreeable indeed, for we have nothing to do!"
"What! Nothing to do?" cried the young man.
"Yes, in our line," replied Sacatripas, making a significant gesture, and placing his hand on the knife placed in his polena.
"And that displeases you?"
"Considerably, señor."
"But if it pleases me that it should be so—since you are paid, notwithstanding, what does it matter to you?"
"Very much, caballero; we are men of action—we are, señor, known caballeros, and we have a reputation to sustain. It is not for nothing that we are called Sacatripas and Mataseis; we are getting rusty in your service, señor; and, moreover," added he with dignity, "we rob you of your money; that will not do."
"What do you mean—rob me of my money?"
"Certainly, caballero, since you do not employ us."
The young man fixed on the bandits—who this time supported it with erect heads—a look of singular expression, and resumed:
"Very well, I admit the first reason; now for the second."
"Pardon, caballero, this is the second: we have now stopped near the Rio Guachipas, have we not?"
"As to that, you ought to know better than I."
"Yes, it is the Rio Guachipas," said Tyro, who had arrived, and who seated himself near his master.
"Very well," resumed Mataseis, bowing courteously to the Guarani, "we have this morning traversed the Rio Dulce."
"What does that signify?" interrupted Emile.
"Pardon, señor; the Rio Dulce is in the province of Tucumán."
"The Rio Guachipas also," added the Guarani.
"Yes," answered the gaucho, without disconcerting himself, "but you will traverse this evening the Rio Bermejo; the Rio Bermejo is in the llano de Manso, and forms a part of the province of Yapizlaga."
"That is true; but what does that matter?"
"Very much, señor; we do not know where your journey will end, and it may last much longer yet; on the other hand, the Rio Dulce runs to Santiago del Estero, where we were born. We want much to see our native country. Now, as we are only a short distance from it, we intend to retrace our steps, follow the banks of the river, and return to Santiago as soon as possible, in order to comfort our families," he added, assuming a piteous countenance, "whom so long an absence has considerably disquieted."
Emile and Tyro had much difficulty in not bursting out into a fit of laughter in the face of the gauchos, at this singular remark.
"Very well," at last said the painter; "you can leave when you like; you are free."
The gauchos were profuse in thanks, made their most gracious bows, and prepared to withdraw. They had already gone some paces when Tyro recalled them.
"Eh! Señores," he cried.
And they came back.
"Come, you have an account to render before you go."
"Just so, señor."
"And you were going like that, without taking what is due to you!" pursued the Guarani, in a sarcastic tone, which had considerable effect on the gauchos, who, in their desire to go away as quickly as possible, had completely forgotten the money; "That is very gracious on your part."
"I beg you to excuse me, señor," answered Mataseis, with self-possession; "we intended to claim the miserable money before leaving you."
"Eight ounces (£17)—you call that a miserable sum; it is, however, not to be disdained."
"We by no means disdain it, believe me."
Tyro took out eight ounces of gold from a leather purse which he always carried, and presented them to Sacatripas.
The gaucho's eye brightened suddenly at the sight of the gold, and he quickly held out his hand to take it; but Tyro withdrew his hand, and appearing to remember something:
"By the way," said he, "you doubtless remember all the conditions of your agreement?"
"All," answered the gaucho, with his eye fixed on the pieces of gold that Tyro amused himself by chinking in his hand.
"Good; you know that you cannot undertake anything against Señor Don Emile or his friends during the month which follows the termination of your agreement with him?"
"Eh!" said the bandits, starting as if they had been stung by a serpent.
"Yes, so it is written," answered Tyro carelessly.
"Pardon!" sentimentally observed Sacatripas; "But I think that this clause adds that we shall be free of that engagement on the condition of not accepting at our departure the last month's salary."
"Ah! I see that you remember this clause well," cried Tyro, laughing, and making the gold glitter more than ever in the eyes of the gauchos; "so, make your decision, my masters—accept or refuse."
"We refuse," said Mataseis.
"You refuse what?"
"To receive our salary," answered with effort the two men, whose tongues appeared to stick to the roof of their mouths, so much difficulty had they in saying these few words.
"Good, that is agreed," said Tyro, putting the gold in his leather purse, and the purse in his pocket; "a word to the wise! We will be on our guard."
"Oh. I do not fear them," said Emile shrugging his shoulders with scorn.
"¡Caray! Nor I either," said the Guarani. "However, it is good to know how to act."
"Señor," said Mataseis, wrapping himself with dignity in the folds of his poncho, "we have neither hatred nor friendship for you. You are indifferent to us. We do not cherish any project to your prejudice, but we wish to remain free. Liberty is better than gold."
And after this bit of buffoonery, the two gauchos bowed, as Scaramouche would have done, and withdrew apparently quite satisfied with themselves.
Emile followed them with a look for a short time, and then turning towards Tyro:
"No matter, my friend," said he laughing, "it must be confessed that those two fellows are very well matched, physically and morally."
"Yes, they are a pretty pair."
"I expect we shall soon hear something more of them."
"Probably," answered the Guarani, becoming thoughtful. "I will watch them."
"You are right; as to me, I shall worry myself no more about them. Well, good night. I shall go and regain the time they have caused me to lose. I am very sleepy. What a capital invention is that siesta!"
The young man stretched himself on the grass, closed his eyes, and in five minutes he was sound asleep.
Tyro, after a few moments reflection, left him to his repose.
The gauchos, like knowing men, aware that it would not be long before they wanted their horses, were careful not to unsaddle them. They had contented themselves with removing the bridle to enable them to feed on the fresh and short grass of the bank, and, for fear of accident, they had attached them by lassos to the trunks of trees.
After the interview which we have related, they returned quickly to find their horses, apparently being in great haste to get away.
But at the moment of putting his foot in the stirrup, Mataseis, whom, as the reader has observed, was the cleverer of the two, stopped suddenly, and turning towards his friend, already in the saddle:
"Eh, companion," said he, "what are you doing?"
"I am going off, you see," answered the other in a sulky air.
"You are going off like that?"
"Why, how do you wish that I should go off?"
"¡Caray! Like a true caballero as you are, by taking leave honestly of our travelling companions."
"To the devil with such folly," said the other, spurring his horse.
But Mataseis boldly seized the horse by the curb, and arrested him in his course.
"It is not folly, my dear fellow," said he; "no one would be less inclined to do that than I; but serious matters are in question."
"Serious matters!" said Sacatripas, with astonishment.
"Caray, I believe you. Ah, where do you come from, my dear fellow? Have you forgotten that we are almost prisoners of the Moros. Ought we not to inform them of our departure? I by no means wish that some thirty of these demons should be at our heels with those interminable lances."
"¡Rayo de Dios! Companion; I have no more wish for that than you, believe me. The mere thought of it chills my blood."
"Bah! reassure yourself; things will go better than you think for. I am convinced that these honest countrymen will be delighted at seeing us go away."
"Let us hope so, companion, let us hope so. I confess that if they wish to get rid of us, there is between them and myself an extraordinary sympathy, for I heartily hope never to see them again."
"Good, you admit the justice of my argument, then."
"Yes, I admit it—I proclaim it!" he cried, with enthusiasm.
"If that is the case, as we ought to lose as little time as possible, get down from your horse and follow me."
"Where are we going?" asked Sacatripas, immediately alighting.
"To the chiefs. Is it not to them that we ought to address ourselves?"
The Guaycurus captains were sitting a little apart, in the shade of a cluster of forest trees which completely sheltered them from the heat of the sun. Instead of imitating the example of their warriors by sleeping, they were conversing, apparently on important matters, as their dignified gestures and their serious mode of talking would have led an observer to believe.
Notwithstanding the large share of effrontery with which they were by nature endowed, it was nevertheless with timidity that the gauchos approached the warriors, before whom they stopped, after having humbly bowed to them.
Arnal turned towards them, and after having with cool contempt eyed them from head to foot for a minute or two:
"What do you want?" he asked in Spanish.
"Honourable captain," answered Mataseis, making a bow which resembled a genuflexion, "my brother and I have the ambitious desire to obtain the kind consideration of your lordship, so that—that—"
And the poor devil stopped short in this intricate sentence, from which he did not know how to escape, upset by the stem and disdainful look of the chief.
"Come to the point—what do you want? Explain yourself briefly," said the chief.
"We wish to leave," resumed Mataseis, boldly taking courage.
"What, to leave? Are you, then, in such a hurry? Wait till we give the order to resume the march."
"Your lordship does not do me the honour to understand me," humbly answered Mataseis, more at his ease. "We wish to separate ourselves from your honourable troop, in order to attend to our personal affairs."
"Ah!" said the chief in a sharp tone, and darting at him a searching look; "If it is so, your master very little understands courtesy if he sends you in his place. Or perhaps he thinks us beneath him?"
"Your lordship still does not understand me," pursued the gaucho, with ill-concealed spite; "my master is entirely ignorant of our application. He has no intention of leaving you."
"Well, then, if that is the case, what do you mean by your application?" cried the chief, whose countenance became immediately calm at this news. "Go to sleep, and do not bother me anymore." Then, turning towards his mute companions, he said scornfully, "These whites, when they have tasted firewater, lose their reason."
"Your honourable lordship errs," replied the gaucho, without concerning himself with the leave which had been so unceremoniously given him. "I have not drunk firewater; nor has my companion. My master has sent us away from his service," added he, slightly altering the truth; "we therefore ask your permission to leave the camp, and to go where we think proper."
"Aha!" cried Arnal, with a disdainful smile, "Is that it?"
"Nothing else, honourable cap—"
"Go, go; be off as quick as possible," cried the chief, interrupting him; "the sooner we are rid of you, the better we shall like it."
And stopping with a peremptory gesture the pompous expressions of gratitude, and the obsequious salutations which they thought themselves obliged to make, the chief dismissed them, and immediately resumed his conversation with the captains, as though he had not been interrupted by this incident.
The gauchos did not wait for a repetition of the invitation which they had had; they prepared immediately to profit by the permission given them, and took themselves off at a smart gallop in the direction of the Rio Dulce.
During half an hour, or thereabouts, they proceeded quickly without exchanging a word; then, when they had completely disappeared in the windings of the path, and they were quite certain that the tall grass effectually concealed them, they slackened by degrees the pace of their horses, and soon entered some thick shrubbery.
After having alighted, unsaddled their horses, and having assured themselves by a minute search that they had nothing to fear from the ears of any spy, they stretched themselves on the grass, and, free from all care, lit their puros, which they began to smoke with great gusto.
"Ah! My dear fellow!" said Mataseis, sending a long column of bluish smoke, which escaped at the same time from his nose and mouth, "What brutes these Pagans are! Upon my word they are idiots. But what could one do? I was obliged to make concessions."
"And you have done very well, brother," answered Sacatripas; "the principal thing for us was to escape from the trap in which we were."
"Your approbation is very sensible, my dear fellow; it is sweet to be understood."
"But tell me; now that we are alone, and quite certain not to be heard, we can speak with freedom."
"Between ourselves, we never speak otherwise."
"That is true. Nature has created us brothers."
"Well said, Sacatripas; you have summed up in a few words the bonds that unite us."
"Thank you," answered Sacatripas; "now candidly, I am afraid you have committed an error."
"Oho! And how's that, if you please?"
"Why, it is that I do not at all know this country."
"Because memory fails you."
"Possibly; but I should not be sorry to be quite certain."
"That is easy; listen to me. We crossed this morning the Rio Dulce, did we not? At the ford on this side of the river we passed near a thicket of Holm oaks."
"Let me see, I do not very well remember. There was a wood that we traversed, the trees of which, about the height of a man, were vertically notched."
"Ah, upon my word, it was so. Well?"
"Well, behind this wood was some very thick shrubbery, that we also crossed."
"We were told to be in a thicket in the midst of which there is a larch tree."
"Very good. Look carefully round you; we are in the thicket, and there is the larch tree behind us."
"Upon my word, I confess that I had not remarked it. On the first branch of the tree there ought to be a cross."
"Look, my dear fellow, look," answered Mataseis.
"¡Caray! I will have the matter cleared up," cried Sacatripas, rising and going towards the tree.
In a minute he returned.
"Honour to you!" he said; "You follow a track like a Pampas Indian; the cross is there."
"Did I not tell you so?" answered Mataseis.
"It is true," humbly answered the other, "but I did not like to believe you."
There was a pause of a few minutes, during which the two gauchos yawned, so as almost to put their jaws out of joint.
"When is he to come?" asked Sacatripas.
"He will be certainly here at sunset."
Sacatripas raised his eyes, stifling a new yawn.
"Hum!" murmured he; "It is scarcely two in the afternoon; we have still three hours to wait; it is very long."
"You are getting weary," said his companion.
"I confess it to my shame—I am horribly tired," said he, lighting another puro.
"Time hangs heavily when there is nothing to do," sententiously remarked Mataseis.
"That is true," gaped Sacatripas, lighting his cigar.
"Ah! I have it! What do you say to a game?" said Mataseis.
"Good!" exclaimed Sacatripas; "Why should we not have a hand?"
"Let us do so," they cried, brightening up, and each taking an old pack of cards from their pockets, at the same time drawing their knives from their girdles.
These two movements had been executed with such precision and so simultaneously, that they showed that, notwithstanding the great friendship of which they made a parade, the two brothers had not an unlimited confidence in each other's honesty.
"What shall we play for, my dear fellow?" carelessly asked Mataseis shuffling the cards.
"We must play for something."
"Certainly; without that, there would be no pleasure."
"Well put—if we played only for honour."
"Pooh!" exclaimed Sacatripas; "Between us, my dear fellow, honour does not signify much."
"What do you mean?" cried Mataseis.
"I mean," pursued Sacatripas, "that we are both too accomplished and too justly renowned caballeros to risk our honour on a card."
"¡Caray! That is well thought, and delicately said. I entirely share your opinion, my friend."
"It seems to me that the stake is easy to find. For some time we have received a few ounces without having met with any opportunity to spend it."
"Very well, we will play for an ounce."
The two pieces of gold were placed on the grass. They drew lots who should deal. Fate favoured Mataseis, and the game commenced.
Monte is the American lansquenet. Its combinations are the same, or nearly so, as those of lansquenet; only as more cards are on the table, the chances of the banker are greater. The chief art in the game is—as in all games of chance, for that matter—to adroitly shuffle and deal the cards, talents which the Spanish-Americans possess in an eminent degree. They could easily teach the Greeks, the cleverest people in Europe, who are very skilful in the matter.
The game that the two brothers were playing was all the more curious, inasmuch as each one knew thoroughly the resources that his adversary possessed, and his manner of playing.
Two hours passed, during which they did no harm, which the reader can easily understand; the two friends watched each other too narrowly.
During all this time, there had been very little conversation. The only words that they pronounced were in connection with the game, and they confined themselves to the announcement of the colours—words like these, for example, and very little understood by a third party—bastos, palos, copas, oro, sometimes adding the same before the colour—siete de copas, cinco de palos, &c. However, as often happens, Mataseis, who, in playing fairly, saw fortune favouring him, wished to force the luck, and oblige her to remain faithful to him. The mode was easy for him, and perfectly within his reach; let us do him the justice to acknowledge that he hesitated a long time to employ it—not that his conscience revolted the least in the world against the expedient, which appeared all fair to him—but simply that he was afraid he would be discovered by his companion.
The strife was long; it lasted at least five minutes, but there were four ounces on the game—a pretty sum. There wanted only a dos de oro to win the game. Mataseis balanced the card between his fingers; he was ready to turn it—when he suddenly stopped, leant forward and listened.
"Did you not hear something, my dear fellow?" said he.
His companion turned his head a little.
"No, nothing," said he.
The movement which he had made, rapid as it had been, was enough; the stroke was played, a magnificent dos de oro, carelessly thrown by Mataseis, stood out boldly by the side of the other.
"I have lost again," piteously said Sacatripas, drawing another ounce from his pocket.
"Will you go on?" asked Mataseis, removing the stakes.
This was too much; it awakened the half-dormant suspicions of Sacatripas.
"Yes," replied he; "why not?"
"Why, because you are not in luck, and I should not like to occasion you too serious losses, my dear friend."
"I thank you, but don't concern yourself about that, I beg; luck will return to me, I hope."
"Very well; how much shall we play for this time?"
"Four ounce," boldly said Sacatripas.
"Hum! That is a good deal; mind you are not stumped out."
"Bah! Nothing venture, nothing win. Come, there are my four ounces."
"There are mine!"
Mataseis won again, but this time fairly; fortune favoured him. Sacatripas bit his lips till the blood came, but he did not appear to notice it. He prided himself on being a good player. Coolly drawing his money from his pocket, and piling it before him:
"Ten ounces," said he.
"Oh! oh!" cried Mataseis; "That is a good deal, but I must add two ounces, for there are but eight on the game."
"That is true; well, add them."
"It is a good deal," resumed he.
"Are you afraid?"
"I afraid!" cried Mataseis, wounded in his self-love, and whose covetousness was still more excited by the gold spread out before him; "come on then; you are joking;" and he added the two ounces which were wanting.
The game became enthralling; there were twenty ounces staked on it.
"La codicia rompe el saco," says a Spanish proverb, which may be translated: Avarice breaks the purse. The sight of the pieces of gold which glittered before his eyes made Mataseis forget all prudence: he had but one thought—to secure, no matter by what means, the sum placed like a bait before him.
After a moment or two of hesitation, he seized the cards with a feverish hand, and commenced the game.
Sacatripas, instead of taking a third puro, carelessly made a cigarette. Apparently indifferent, he followed with a sullen eye all the movements of his adversary.
Several cards had been turned, without the ocho de bastos, which would decide the game in favour of Mataseis, appearing. The more the game advanced, the more the anxiety of the gaucho increased.
Sacatripas laughed gently; he made pleasant jokes on the delay of the appearance of the tres de copas, which would win the game for him.
The question was between the ocho de bastos and the tres de copas. If one turned up first, Mataseis would win; if the other, he would lose. Suddenly, the gaucho turned pale; he saw, on drawing the card that he was about to turn, that it was the tres de copas—that is to say, that he should lose; a cold sweat burst upon his countenance: his hand trembled.
Sacatripas did not flinch; he also had seen the card. We have said that for these two knowing men the back of the cards virtually did not exist.
"Well," said he, after a pause, "do not you turn it, companion?"
"Yes, yes," answered Mataseis, in a choking voice; then suddenly starting like a wounded buck, "this time, I am sure," cried he excitedly, "we are watched."
With a movement rapid as thought, Sacatripas had with one hand picked up the stakes, and with the other seized and turned one of the cards, at the very moment when Mataseis tried to slip it under the pack.
"This time, companion," said he, in a sharp and biting tone, "I catch you; you are robbing me."
"I rob you!" cried the other in a thundering voice, "I, a caballero—you dare to accuse me of such infamy! You tell a lie, miserable pícaro! It is you who are a thief."
Mataseis had but one resource—that was to get into a rage, and he did so. For that matter, he had ample reasons. He had been caught with his hand in the bag, in the very act of theft, and then—and this made him especially furious—he had lost twenty ounces; for he knew his brother too well to suppose that he would ever consent to give him back the stakes on which he had seized.
"Upon my word," said Sacatripas, with irony, "the game becomes wearisome; luck was against me; we should soon not have known what to do. Let us fight a little; that will help us to pass the time."
"Let us fight then," cried Mataseis, seizing his knife, and placing his poncho half rolled round his left arm for a shield.
"One moment," said Sacatripas, who had imitated all the movements of his brother, and, like him, was ready for a fight; "let us first settle the conditions of duel; we are caballeros."
"Very good, let us settle them," answered Mataseis, taking a step backward.
"Let us first ask ourselves this question—is the quarrel well founded?"
"It is," duly answered Mataseis.
"Be it so, I admit it; it demands blood."
"It shall have it."
"Does it demand that one of us remain on this soil?"
Mataseis hesitated an instant.
"No," he at last replied.
"Very well; we will not fight with the whole blade."
"No, certainly; it appears to me that five inches will be sufficient."
"I think that will be too much," sententiously replied Sacatripas. "We only fight because our honour is attacked, and because we are caballeros; but the rage which just now excites us ought not to make us forget that we are brothers, and that we love one another very much."
"That is true, we love one another very much."
"This is what I propose, then; we will only fight with two inches, and for the first blood. Is that agreeable to you, my dear fellow?"
"I am at your orders; what you have proposed seems to me just, and I accept it."
"Well, if that is the case, let God protect the right."
Each of the adversaries seized his knife, so that the hand was placed just two inches from the point of the blade, preventing the steel from entering further. After having courteously bowed, they placed themselves on their guard, the body leaning forward, the legs apart and slightly bent, the left arm extended to parry, and the right hand, holding the knife, lightly resting on the right thigh.
The fight began.
The two brothers were expert in the management of the knife; they knew every movement, and dealt with extreme rapidity blow upon blow continually dodging one another.
The knife is not a weapon so easy to be managed as might at first be imagined. The Spanish-Americans have made a profound study of it, and none can equal them in the way in which they manage it. The weapon demands great suppleness of body, a wonderful rapidity of movement, and extreme quickness.
Two antagonists can fight a very long time without being wounded, thanks to the poncho—a shield whose wavy folds deaden the blows, and prevent them from reaching the body, completely sheltering the chest.
The two brothers appeared to have completely forgotten the friendship of which they had every now and then so much boasted, such deadly aim did they take, and with such force did they deal their blows.
All this time, notwithstanding the coolness which he feigned, Mataseis was deeply vexed by the very cause which had led to his taking a weapon in his hand. The shame of having thus been taken in the act of theft further increased his rage, and took from him, by blinding him with the hope of a prompt vengeance, the presence of mind necessary to sustain the fight without disadvantage.
This circumstance had not escaped Sacatripas, who, while pushing his brother to extremity, and threatening him on all sides at once, never laid himself open to a blow, and kept himself always on his guard.
"¡Rayo de Dios!" cried Mataseis, suddenly, making a sudden backward step, "I believe I am caught!"
"I think so too," answered Sacatripas, looking coolly at the point of his knife; "here is blood!"
At that moment a sound of footsteps was heard, and a man appeared in the thicket.
"Ha! Ha!" said he, rubbing his hands joyously; "There is fighting here; do not disturb yourselves, companions; I will be your witness; I should be much annoyed to disturb you in the least."
At the sound of this voice the two men stood back, trembling.
"You come too late, Don Pablo!" said Mataseis, with a gracious smile; "We have done."
"Already!" answered Don Pablo Pincheyra—for it was he who had so suddenly arrived; "That is a pity."
"We were amusing ourselves till you came, señor, merely to keep our hand in," said Sacatripas.
"Hum!" said the partisan; "The amusement is pretty, and quite to my taste. You were doing well, I think. Señor Mataseis has a gash on his cheek, which has a fine effect."